


Killing Me Softly

by WeirdFangirlingPersona



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Autumn Weather, Finding inspiration, Latin, M/M, Muses, Music, Musician Sirius Black, Poetry, Writing, dreary day after day stuff, harp player!Sirius, poet!Remus, poor barista!Remus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdFangirlingPersona/pseuds/WeirdFangirlingPersona
Summary: Remus, feeling stuck in a rut and uninspired by his life finds his muse in a mysterious musician at open mic night. (And learns he was a muse himself.)
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, past Remus Lupin/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 121
Collections: Wolfstar Games 2020





	Killing Me Softly

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wolfstar Games 2020
> 
> Theme: Communication
> 
> Team: Sound
> 
> Prompt: [Killing Me Softly With His Song by Roberta Flack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DEbi_YjpA-Y)

His alarm goes off at 5:30 and Remus sloppily turns it off, stumbles out of the bed then bleary-eyed makes his way into the bathroom. He splashes some water on his face, grumbles at its coldness and wraps himself up in the cardigan that hung on the bathroom door on his way out.

It's the end of September and the weather won't be getting any warmer, nor the wind that rattles his shitty windows and seeps under his blankets and into his bones after dark. Soon, the question of whether he buys the old bread on sale or goes wild and gets a fresh loaf will change into whether he has dinner or pays his bills and doesn't freeze to death overnight. 

He ponders how long he probably has until the cold will become unbearable while he makes himself a cup of tea. He can probably make it for another week if he puts on a sweater before going to sleep. While his tea steeps, he quickly goes to change into his work clothes —dark jeans and a white shirt. He spends a good five minutes trying to locate the other sock (he's sure he paired them up and put them into his dresser yesterday??? Where on earth could it be — ah yes, a different drawer...) and when he comes back into the kitchenette, the ever-present cold has cooled his tea down enough it's almost lukewarm. Remus sighs. He hates lukewarm tea. He prefers it hot with a dash of milk and a teaspoon of honey but alas… he shakes his head. One good thing about having run out of milk about five days ago is it won't make the tea colder than it already is.

He glances at his phone —5:50. Dammit, he's almost late again. He quickly downs the cup, grimaces at the taste and runs out of the door.

His stomach rumbles on the bus as he stands among the other crammed passengers. It’s not the first time he wishes he was one of those people who aren't hungry in the mornings. Lucky bastards. What do they do in the mornings? How can they function until lunchtime without any fuel? The bitter part of his brain gladly supplies an answer: _because they can count on having a lunch._

He elbows his way out of the bus on the seventh stop and he nearly doesn't make it out of the door. Morning Londoners are maybe a quieter lot than afternoon or evening Londoners, but they surely are more stubborn and much more of an unmovable force. He checks his phone. 6:21. He should hurry. 

He walks briskly, the promise of getting out of the misty morning cold soon is goading his legs to move faster. 

When he arrives at _Fidelius_ it's 6:31. He unlocks the door, closes and re-locks it behind himself, switches the lights on and sets to prepare the coffee shop for the day.

The owner of the coffee shop, Albus Dumbledore —a quirky man of an unidentifiable age (Remus has always guessed it's something between 60 and death) —employed him only thanks to the acquaintance with his father. He saw the man maybe 5 times in the 3 years he’s worked here. He remembers that the very first day he started at _Fidelius_ , Dumbledore was there to welcome him and explain (at length) the name of the place and its "message to the customers". 

Remus, having a degree from Classics and English literature, not only knew what the Latin term meant already but he also sincerely doubted any of the customers (mostly businessmen on their way to work or mothers with kids heading to the nearby park) cared enough to ask. But he also knew it wouldn't be wise to question his boss on his first shift so he left that information to himself and, pretending captivity, listened to Mr Dumbledore rant about his brand.

Three years down the line and Remus has yet to meet someone who actually asks him about it.

Nevertheless, the quality of the products they sell at _Fidelius_ does come first. They follow a strict pastry protocol that instructs them to have fresh baked goods ready every other day and throw out all the unsold pieces. And there’s _always_ something left. While it’s not very eco-friendly, Remus doesn’t have to pay for his breakfast if he has the morning shift on the right days. And he calls that a win. Another win is that the first few shots of espresso end down the drain because the coffee machine needs to be calibrated every morning for the new blend of coffee beans, as they change them every day. Remus makes himself coffee out of one of the “inadequate” shots and stuffs his mouth with three still perfectly good but also “deemed as trash” croissants two minutes before opening. 

The next two hours pass somewhat okay. There are more complaining Karens™ than usual for such an early hour (both men and women, Karen has definitely become a gender-neutral term over the years) but on the other hand, he only gets yelled at once.

When Lily turns up at 9 to double the shift, he’s eternally grateful to see her as he always is when they are scheduled together. She's his favourite colleague —they have this very specific relationship, that only comes from working side by side almost every day. They're friends brought together by capitalism who only see each other at work. Her kind and soft demeanour always helps him handle the rush hours. She’s quick and precise, never nervous or hectic and she always remains professional and calm. It keeps Remus grounded and not panicking even when the queue stretches from the counter all the way to the front door around lunchtime. 

Some days, it’s so busy the only break he gets is the quick run to the bathroom and back. Sometimes, when his feet and back hurt from standing for too long, he stays in the bathroom longer than is necessary to rest for a bit. Never longer than ten minutes though, he feels guilty for leaving Lily to tend the bar alone as it is. He got used to checking his phone when he’s sitting on the closed toilet lid to relieve the tension in his feet. He opens the email app on his screen today as well and, ah yes, it’s there! 

_FlyingPadfoot left a comment on your latest post_

His eyes scan the comment fast and he’s smiling before his brain has had the time to realize what it actually says. 

“Loved this one! I can really relate to the part about not standing up to your younger self’s expectations. Or at least I assume that’s what the third rhyme refers to? This poem is beautiful, Moony. You have a lovely way with words!” 

He grins stupidly for the next half hour because _this is it_. This is what he breaths for, this is the reason why he gets out of bed at an ungodly hour every day to do the job he hates. 

Writing poems and posting them on his blog under a silly nickname is one of the few things that bring him happiness these days. It might sound pathetic, but as long as someone reads them, relates to them, enjoys them, as long as there's at least one person in this world who could benefit from reading his words in any way, he's not creating them in vain. And that's what gives his life a purpose.

His blog has a steady number of followers and a pretty constant ratio between hits and comments/likes. He’s not famous or anything but his readers like to come back to his writing and that’s what matters. _FlyingPadfoot_ is one of his oldest followers and they have commented on every one of his poems so far. They always have something nice to say and seeing their username pop up in his notifications never fails to brighten up Remus’ day. It’s funny because Remus often feels like he’s baring his soul in the rhymes, revealing his most private thoughts and feelings and he knows nothing about this person and yet he often catches himself thinking ‘I wonder what _Padfoot_ will think about this’ when he’s posting his newest piece. 

His good mood lasts for all of forty minutes and it takes away any hope for this day to be at least slightly decent with it. 

He only notices them, when they come in and make their way right to the counter, so he has no time to hide. The men, both dressed nearly identical, are holding hands. The slightly taller one, in a white cotton t-shirt, tucked into the belt on his light washed jeans, with an opened wool trench coat, makes a way too surprised face to see him. 

Remus scowls. He has no doubt they’re here on purpose. It’s not like the man could forget where his ex-boyfriend works in the month since they broke up. 

“Hi, Eric. What can I get you?” Remus puts on his best professional tone and neutral face. 

“Oh hello, Remus! It must have slipped my mind that this is the café you work at, haha,” the man ruffles his perfectly styled 90’s haircut (James Dawson would be proud) and tries for an apologetic smile. He also very unsubtly drags the other man forward by their joined hands.

_Oh god, how could I ever fancy this uppity ponce?_ Remus wonders. “Right. So. Your usual?” 

Eric’s way too bright smile wavers a bit and he narrows his eyes at Remus. “Actually, no. I decided to limit my intake of caffeine. I’ll have decaf cappuccino with extra foam on top.” 

Remus barely manages to not roll his eyes as he puts the order into the system and looks expectantly at the other man that has been following their exchange with mildly curious eyes and a confused smile. “And your new... _friend..._ will have?” 

Eric’s face turns triumphant and he lets go of the other man’s hand only to snake his arm around his waist. 

“What would you like, babe? Something with syrup for that sweet tooth of yours?” 

Remus, resisting the urge to vomit, raises his eyebrows at them. 

The babe in question shoots Remus a look that could be called apologetic if he was in a good mood but Remus is currently very far from it so he only raises his eyebrows higher. 

“I think I’ll just have a cup of batch brew, thank you.” 

The simple order and the “thank you”, basic human decency really, manage to soften Remus up enough to not growl his next question. 

“Will it be for here or to go?” _Please, just take it with you and go. Please._

Eric makes a show of thinking about it and then, _of course_ , grins first at his boyfriend and then at Remus and says, “We’ll drink it here.” 

After they pay, Remus follows their backs with narrowed eyes until they sit at the only empty table, that is, thank god, positioned far enough from the counter that he can’t hear them anymore. 

“Wow.” 

He nearly jumps in surprise. He completely forgot about Lily at the coffee machine. 

“That was...intense,” Lily implies.

Remus doesn’t have anything to say in response. 

“Has he honestly just walked in here with his new boyfriend to...do what exactly? Flaunt around? Show you that he won the break-up or something? Remind me, why were you dating him in the first place?” 

Remus sighs. “I used to really like him. We have the same taste in music, like similar books, and we always had something to talk about. Besides, look at him, he’s hot. I just didn’t realize that he’s also absolutely insufferable.”

“I remember the day after the break-up. We had a shift together and you looked murderous all day but you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I was fuming. We had been dating for a few weeks but I could tell it wasn’t working. We ended in a huge fight, screaming at each other and we both said some nasty stuff. It escalated into him yelling something about how much better he can do than dating me and then he stormed out of my flat. I guess this is him showing me exactly that.”

Lily’s face is furious. “He said WHAT?”

Remus shrugs. “It’s alright, I didn’t want to continue dating him anyway. And I wasn’t nice to him in that fight either.” 

“Still, it’s not right to treat people like that. What does he think he proved? And the nerve to walk in here and act as he did?” she scoffs. “Honestly, I’m ready to pour the coffee he ordered on his head.” 

Remus laughs. “Seeing you do that would probably be the highlight of my year but please don’t. I quite enjoy working with you, I don’t want you getting fired.”

Lily’s face turns into something Remus can only describe as plotting as she says, “I’d be fine, James makes enough for the both of us and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind…” 

Remus chuckles. “Okay, I think we made them wait long enough to make a point. Could you start on their drinks, please?” 

Lily huffs, “You’re no fun. What was the order again?”

“One cappuccino with a double shot and a batch brew.”

“Um…I think Eric wanted decaf.”

“I heard him.” 

Lily smirks. “I take it back. You’re very much fun, you sneaky bastard.” 

When his shift ends at 15:30, after nine hours of work, Remus is more than ready to go home. He didn't want to say so in front of Lily, but the encounter with Eric kind of got to him. It's not that he has feelings for the man, no, he's completely done with him and over the break-up but it still stings, to be treated like that by someone he used to be intimate and vulnerable with. 

He takes his tips, says goodbye to Lily and Caradoc who came for the afternoon+closing shift and walks out of _Fidelius_ into the crispy Autumn London air. He feels like buying his favourite expired lasagna in the pound shop on the corner by the bus stop on his way home, curling up on his barely-holding-together sofa and pretending he doesn't exist until it's time to go to work again. But because the universe apparently hates Remus Lupin, they don't have the lasagna he likes and he can't afford to buy the similar kind in Tesco, so he has to take the only frozen pizza on sale. And there's pineapple on it. _I'm going to scream. Or cry,_ he thinks. But he does neither because he's really hungry and hey, at least it's one more piece of fruit in his diet? Step closer to the 5 a day? No?

As he walks home, dejected, he contemplates his life decisions that have led him here.

Remus has always dreamt about becoming a writer. _A poet._ That’s why he went off to London to study literature and languages right after secondary school. A wee young lad from a small town, full of hope, in a big city made of infinite possibilities, ready to make his dreams come true. He would go and become a true wordsmith, paint pictures with his words in people’s minds and awake long-buried emotions in his readers. He felt like the world was at his fingertips.

Until he was rejected by the first publisher. And the next one. And then another and another and another all through university and even after. Always by a posh white man in a suit sitting behind a desk that probably cost more than his parents' entire cottage. “Not bad, boy, but not good enough to publish.” “No one buys poetry like that anymore.” “The poems are too long to be catchy.” “Too short to get a reaction out of people.” “Not really our style.” “Try your luck elsewhere, Mr Lupin.”

He wanted to remain hopeful and not give up but he doubted himself more and more after every failed attempt. In the end, he just stopped trying. But the need for a creative outlet never left him so he just turned to the internet for the time being and stayed there. 

He could self-publish, but he didn’t have enough money for that. He could move back to his parents or out of the city, where rents are cheaper and customers nicer but he can’t give up the last bit of his dream that he has left. To be an independent writer living in London. The city is his ever-present muse.

He's not feeling very inspired today though. If the day wasn't horrible before, the fog hid the usually lovely brick buildings and the cold air is crawling under the threadbare scarf his mother made him for his 20th birthday years ago. The absolute cherry on top is when he steps into a puddle when crossing the road. The water easily gets through his old sneakers and immediately soaks his socks. Just wonderful. London definitely won't awake any creative activity today.

His poems are usually about the dreariness of everyday life, realistic, relatable things. But right now, he craves an escape. He wants to be as far away from his struggles and problems as he can. So he lets his mind wander and imagination run wild. 

In his head, he thinks of different realms. Of faraway lands full of magic, enchanted castles and mythical creatures. A fantastic world with cursed princes, powerful queens and brave knights sworn to service by their honour, where a man's word still holds value, stars guide the steps of travellers and true love is a force to be reckoned with. 

He rushes home so he wouldn't forget his idea or lose the thread of thoughts. He doesn't even take the coat off in his hurry to get the words down. It's when he's trying to turn on his laptop, soaked socks still on, when he realizes it will take forever for this ancient piece of technology to load and just scribbles the little poem on a receipt from the pound shop. 

_In the woods oh so_ _  
_ _deep_ _  
_ _fairies dance and_ _  
_ _fairies weep_ _  
_ _for heartless_ _  
_ _mortals and lost_ _  
_ _lovers_ _  
_ _it’s told it’s_ _  
_ _endless love they seek._ _  
  
_~ Moony

He automatically scrawls his little signature under it without even thinking about it. He always does, when he writes, whether it’s in google docs or by hand. He used to scribble little poems or just ideas on random scraps of paper and what often happened was that he lost them. Thus he got used to the habit of always undersigning them, so that if someone, somewhere finds them, they’ll know they’re creations of some Moony. It’s his way of leaving something behind, a way of telling the universe ‘I won’t be forgotten, here is my imprint to the fabric of reality, this is my echo’. 

This poem is short and simple but it expresses his emotions and the _genius loci_ of the place he had in mind perfectly. He will post it on his blog tonight.

* * *

It's three days later, Remus is once again sitting on the closed toilet lid at work and frowning at his phone. Nothing. There's nothing. Not a single comment from _FlyingPadfoot_ on his last poem. Not even a like. He checked. Multiple times. And that's strange because they have always commented on AND liked all of his posts since they started following him. And it has never been later than a day or two after he posted.

He wonders if something happened to Padfoot or if they simply didn't like the theme of the poem. After all, it's not like Remus to write fantasy. But he thought… He thought it could be a refreshing change to keep things interesting on his blog. And most of his followers have really liked it judging by the comments. He shouldn’t be so hung up on the reaction of one specific person (whom he doesn’t even know!) when so many others enjoyed it. Some even called it their favourite work of his!

He’s working the middle shift today, from 9:00 to 18:00, so no free breakfast. This shift is his least favourite. It always kills the whole day and the possibilities to get his hands on any “inadequate” food or coffee are minimal. 

On one hand, he doesn’t have to get up as early as he does for the morning shift but he still needs to be out of bed around 7:30 so not much of a sleep in. And he leaves _Fidelius_ at 18:00 which means dark and the desire to do absolutely nothing this time of the year. But he doesn’t have to close at least. 

After two days with brooding Caradoc who doesn’t say a word unless he absolutely has to and constantly looks like he’s pissed about something, and this morning with Frank who is nice and friendly but doesn’t shut up about his fiancé Alice and the wedding they’re planning, he’s more than relieved when Lily arrives at 13 for her afternoon shift. 

The coffee shop is unusually calm and he’s deep in thought about Padfoot again when she comes up to him and tugs on his green apron. "Ready to set things up for the music night?"

He blinks at her. "Huh? What?"

"The music night. It's today. You forgot about it, didn't you?" 

Remus scoffs. "Of course not." He totally did. 

“The poster has been hanging on the front door for weeks!” 

“Yeah, I-I-...I noticed that. See? I’m not surprised it’s today at all!” 

She raises her eyebrows at him. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“That’s actually a good thing, if you think about it. I haven’t seen it in my shift spreadsheet, are you going to be here alone?”

“No, Caradoc will arrive at five.”

He cringes in sympathy. Music nights are hectic enough as they are but with Caradoc? That’s recipe for a nightmare. 

“Is Dumbledore coming?”

“He isn’t. He left for Scotland last week. I think he said something about an abandoned castle in the Highlands?” 

“Right. So he’s on holiday and sightseeing. Great. How helpful of him.” 

Lily laughs. “Yeah, he could at least give us a raise if you ask me. We basically run this whole thing for him.”

“Yeah,” Remus sighs and drops his gaze down to his worn sneakers. He’ll definitely need to buy new shoes for winter. God knows where he’s supposed to find money for them.

Lily puts a hand on his shoulder as she walks to the coffee machine to fix herself a cup. “Oh come on, don’t look so sad. Your shift ends at six and the music won’t start playing until six thirty so you won’t have to listen to them as you had the last time when you were closing and the awful dude was playing. What was his name again?”

Remus starts unloading the dishwasher and grimaces at the memory, “Lockhart. God, he was horrible. And he wouldn’t shut up! I think more people left during his show time than came in. And I got literally no tips. We can never let him play here again.”

Lily sips her coffee and hums. “Don’t worry, I found someone new. Well, James did. His best friend will be opening with his performance.” 

“Oh? What instrument?” 

“He plays the harp.”

“That’s unusual. We’ve never had a harp player here before.”

“He is unusual. His style is very unique, not everyone likes it but I think he’s great.”

“Interesting. Do you know what he’ll be playing?” 

Lily breaths in to reply but she’s interrupted by an incoming customer, “Excuse me, do you have oat milk?” and they have to get back to work.

When the clock strikes 18:00, Remus feels reluctant to go home just yet. The temperatures are dropping lower and lower and even when he puts on extra socks and a sweater he still shivers with cold under the duvet at night. Moreover, the flat isn’t just cold now, it _feels_ cold too. Bare walls, cheap furniture and the one miraculously surviving succulent. In other words: uninviting, uncomfortable, lonely. Just like himself.

Lily finds him loitering around the back after he hung his apron and put on his jacket. She must sense how clueless he feels because she invites him to stay for the music night, as a guest, with the promise of free hot chocolate. And because Remus has nothing better to do and he hasn't had hot chocolate in months, he decides to stay.

He sits down at one of the few remaining empty tables that is close to the bar but pretty far from the little stage they set up with Caradoc on the other end of the café and he takes out a little notebook that he started carrying around for the occasions when inspiration strikes him out of the blue and he doesn’t happen to have a receipt from the pound shop on hand. He decides to doodle a bit. 

He’s just starting a new sketch when a cold waft of air hits him in the back. He turns his head and his gaze meets startled grey eyes framed with wavy dark hair, staring directly at him.

“Padfoot, I swear to god if you don’t move right this instant I’m dropping it on your feet.”

The eyes disappear and Remus can focus again. Has he heard right? Has somebody just called the man Padfoot? Could it be..? Nah, surely that’s a common nickname, right? 

Remus peers at the pair that just came through the door one more time. The person he locked eyes with is a tall man in a leather jacket carrying the front of what seems to be a big black harp case, which is held on the other end by a portly man with blond hair and rosy cheeks. Together they take the harp towards the stage and haul it up. When the eyes glance his way again and see him looking already, they smile. Remus is momentarily stunned by the beauty of it. The lights positioned above the stage make the stranger’s eyes look like molten silver, his hair shines with the elegance of falling stars and the smile that lit up his entire face softens its sharp features. The poet in Remus is awake and oh, he could compose verses about the grace of that smile and the sharp arrow that seemed to hit him right in the chest when he saw it. 

Instead, he’s happy to shake off his stupor just in time to smile back at him. And he’s twice as happy to get a wink in return. 

When Lily brings him the promised hot chocolate (whipped cream and all), she finds him grinning stupidly into his notebook with blushing cheeks. 

Lily smiles at him. “And what are you suddenly so happy about?” 

He looks up to thank her for the hot chocolate but he can’t resist a quick peek on the stage while he’s at it. He was looking for a justifiable reason to lift his head in that direction for the past five minutes so hard that he didn’t even notice the blond man has left and it’s just the dark haired stranger.

Lily must catch him because when he finally lifts his gaze to her, she’s smirking at him. 

“Ooh.” 

Remus stops grinning. “What?” 

She looks around the crowded café and then at the other empty chair at Remus’ table. Then she smirks more. “Nothing.”

Remus narrows his eyes at her. “What.”

“Would you look at that, 6:29. Sorry, Remus, I have to go. Time to announce the first performer. Enjoy the chocolate.” 

Remus frowns at her back for the entirety of her way to the small stage. He doesn’t trust that smirk. 

Lily first checks in with the harp player preparing his instrument on the stage and then takes a hold of the microphone. “Good evening, everybody and welcome to our third seasonal music night. It’s my pleasure to introduce our first artist of the evening, Sirius Black. Enjoy the show.” 

Remus’ first and only thought before Sirius takes the mic is, _Oh my god, he’s named after a star. My poet's heart is doomed,_ and then he’s swept off his feet by Sirius’ husky voice. 

“Hello, people. Thanks for having me. As you can see behind me, I play harp. Today, my first song is going to be a completely new ballad I frantically wrote in the past two days after I got inspired by this beautiful poem I read online about fairies and love. As you probably guessed I’ve never played it to an audience before since it’s so new, so I can just hope you’ll like it! It’s called Moony.” 

Remus sits petrified in his chair. No, this can’t be true. This gorgeous musician can’t be his Padfoot. But he clearly is. And he composed a ballad (!!!) based on his writing. And named it after Remus’ stupid internet nickname. He doesn’t know what to do with that information.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to do anything because Sirius starts playing and Remus’ brain shuts off completely. 

The song starts slow with gentle tones and Remus is immediately transported to his magical world again. The melody reminds him of a green sunlit meadow where elfs would dance with flowers woven through their hair. 

Then the tempo quickens and the melody deepens and it guides him to a mysterious forest as the elfs dance away. Gentle breeze ruffles his hair and the leaves part to show him a path that leads to a dim clearing where the light is streaming in golden beams through the branches and fairies greet him as an old friend. It reminds him of the warmth of autumn sun kissing his cheeks. 

The melody is richer and smooth now and the emotions are so heartfelt they’re almost tangible. Sirius is pouring his heart into the ballad and it conveys all the feelings Remus wrote into his poem. Love, pain, longing, magic. 

And when the chorus hits, it’s just incredible. He feels like Sirius is reading from his diary. If someone opened up his chest this is the music that would pour out of his heart. He’s surprised how well it fits. He’s also momentarily embarrassed that everyone in the room will somehow know it’s his feelings being laid bare in the song and he wishes Sirius never wrote it for a few seconds. Then he thinks better of it. 

Sirius’s eyes are closed, brows furrowed in concentration as his long fingers strum the harp strings with intensity to bring every tone to life. Remus is enchanted. The music speaks to him in wordless language like nothing else has ever had. 

His hands start to itch with the need to capture that feeling but he can’t tear his eyes from the stage. He has to hear the whole thing. 

When the song gently calms down and the last tones die away, he grabs his pen and notebook and gets to work.

He doesn’t pay attention to the applause Sirius receives but his next songs are just as beautiful. They set a mood for his poem.

He’s scribbling verse after verse, his heart beating to the rhythm of the harp and his blood singing to the beats of the music and he feels alive.

_Strumming my pain with his fingers_

_Singing my life with his words_

_Killing me softly with his song_

_Telling my whole life with his words_  
  


_I heard he sang a good song_

_I heard he had a style_

_And so I came to see him_

_to listen for a while_

_And there he was_

_this young boy_

_a stranger to my eyes_

_I felt all flushed with fever_

_embarrassed by the crowd_

_I felt he'd found my letters_

_and read each one out loud_

_I prayed that he would finish_

_but he just kept right on_

_Strumming my pain with his fingers_

_Singing my life with his words_

_Killing me softly with his song_

_Telling my whole life with his words_

_Killing me softly with his song_

~ Moony

He looks at his work, considers leaving it as it is but then he shakes his head and adds a title at the top. _Padfoot_.

He only realizes now, after he finished the poem, that Sirius is no longer playing. He looks up to the stage but there’s already a different performer preparing her guitar. 

He scans the café but Sirius is nowhere to be found. It nearly sends Remus back into his gloomy mood but then he hears the husky voice again, coming from right behind him. 

”Excuse me, can I sit here? Everywhere else is full.”

Remus turns and sees Sirius standing there with a mug of hot chocolate of his own, the radiant smile on but there’s a little bit of insecurity in his eyes as well. It’s the fraction of nervousness that makes Remus feel like Sirius is not as unattainable as he seemed in the spotlight on stage and it allows him to relax and answer, “Of course.” 

Sirius sits down on the chair opposite Remus and sips at his hot chocolate. “Wow, it’s really good.” 

Remus finishes the rest of his hot chocolate that he’s been savouring in the cup. “It is, right? Thick like custard. We have a good supplier.” 

“You work here?” Sirius asks, surprised. 

He nods. 

Sirius grins. “Then you might be able to riddle me this. Why is the café called _Fidelius_? I asked Lily several times but she never told me.”

Remus blinks and answers without thinking, “ _Fidelius_ translates from Latin as very faithful. It's the comparative form of _Fidelis_ , which means trusty, faithful or trustworthy. It’s supposed to tell our customers that they can trust us to always stay faithful to our core values. Quality coffee, superior drinks, fresh and fair pastry.”

“Damn.” Sirius considers him for a while. “You should teach.” 

Remus snorts, “I just repeated to you what my boss told me 3 years ago”. 

“Really?” Sirius laughs. “It didn’t sound like it. It sounded more like something you’re passionate about. But that might just be your voice. It’s so engaging. I'm really interested in what you have to say and not just because you're cute,” he adds, all smooth and composed.

Remus splutters. Why does he never know how to reply to these things? But also…Teaching sounds kind of fun…It doesn't matter that he's never considered it before or that he has no idea what it entails...The seed has been planted in his head.

“I’m Sirius by the way.”

“Yeah, I know, I heard Lily when she introduced you on the stage.” Why did he say that? Instant regret, immediate internal facepalm. _He’s just being friendly! Act normal for fuck’s sake._ He tries to make up for it with an awkward smile and “My name’s Remus.” 

“Nice to meet you, Remus,” Sirius smiles warmly. “I didn’t know you were listening. You looked busy with something in your notebook.” 

“Nah that’s just a little something I wrote based on your music.” What. Can’t he even talk to people anymore? Next thing he knows he’ll be telling him his credit card number. 

Sirius seems to perk up suddenly. “You...you wrote something while listening to my songs? Can I read it, please?” 

Remus knows it’s now or never. 

He swallows all of his doubts and shoves his notebook forward. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little story.
> 
> The first poem Remus writes in this fic is borrowed from the brilliant [Everlinet](https://www.instagram.com/everlinet/?hl=cs) (a literal fairy). Go check out her work, it's beautiful!


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